


alive somewhere else

by coronergrey



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dom!Wald, Edging, Humiliation, Light Bondage, M/M, Sort Of, Totally Gratuitous PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coronergrey/pseuds/coronergrey
Summary: Oswald and Ed have an arrangement. It involves rope, bickering, and poorly repressed emotions.





	alive somewhere else

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic (ever really) and definitely not beta read so please excuse any minor mistakes. thanks for reading! <3
> 
> takes place several years after the events of s3.

Time didn’t heal all wounds, but it lessened the sting. Edward and Oswald were not immune to it. Neither of them could call upon their anger and hurt as readily now, even when they wanted to. Age burned a vignette around memories that once had sharp edges. They could think rationally around each other, most of the time, if only because there were bigger threats than spurned love and dreams of the cold. Neither of them forgot, but things in Gotham were different. They cultivated an uneasy truce, a single thread between them that wasn’t stained in blood. 

In that fragile calm, they had an arrangement. It was Ed’s proposal, but if Oswald felt he was getting the short end of the stick, he hadn’t complained. 

The problem (as always, it seemed) was with Edward’s identity. _The Riddler_ was a fearless mastermind. He perched aloof and watchful above Gotham’s seedy underbelly, interfering roguishly as it suited his unpredictable whims. His crimes made headlines and then he, ever the puppeteer, vanished dramatically in a billow of smoke and left behind only his cryptic clues. _The Riddler_ could afford to be theatrical in the face of corruption, theft, and murder, because he was always three steps ahead. He was always in control. An impossible act to keep up forever, especially with the Batman lurking in every deep shadow of the city.

Enemies on all sides, Edward had gone to Oswald looking for a way to find respite, however brief. An occasional hour of silence, he asked, where he didn’t have to wear the millstone of omniscience, where he could be sure he was safe to think. A stiff drink wouldn’t hurt, either.

Oswald had given him something better. The Riddler came into the lounge flashy and effervescent, intellect hard as diamond. An equal. 

Edward Nygma, tied with boy scout expertise to the high-back chair in Oswald’s study, hair soaked through with sweat, was a vision of helplessness. He looked more like property than a fearsome rival. His wrists ached, and his back. His thighs were burning from the tension of lifting his hips to chase sensation. Bare, cracked open, desperate. 

At the lounge, he always left his hat, coat, and dignity at the door. Edward, as Oswald preferred him, was safe to fall to pieces here.

“Oh, God.” He rasped, head rolling back. A jolt of fresh sensation gave him a full-body spasm, fighting against his restraints. “Fuck, I don’t– _close!_ ”

Oswald let go of his cock. Edward shuddered, a rolling wave of something like nausea making him slump back into the chair. It took him under for a moment. He fought through the frustration of being denied release. He took a long, unsteady breath that did more to rattle his teeth than center him.

If Oswald was enjoying the gratuitous display, he didn’t show it. He perched on the edge of his desk, spine straight, expression unflappable. He looked almost bored. He observed Edward’s suffering the way one might examine grocery store flowers: familiar and endearing, but wholly unremarkable. It made Ed’s blood boil. He knew if he reached out and put a hand over Oswald’s chest, he would find a heart hammering as hard as his own. If he could get a single hand loose, he could see, he could prove that Oswald wanted it too, wanted every filthy little inch Ed gave him, would fucking _sob_ for it–

“Ah!” Ed grunted, involuntary, when Oswald’s gloved hand returned to play idly with Ed’s cock, not letting him forget his arousal for a moment. Gloves, like Ed was too dirty to touch directly. Not just the gloves, either. Oswald was dressed from shiny shoes to snug paisley tie, suit all cool grey pinstripes. Of course. He’d been watching the silver minute hand on Oswald’s wristwatch tick round and round. He could swear it was getting slower.

“Don’t you want to come?” Oswald asked archly, glancing towards the locked and bolted study door. As if he’d rather hurry it along, he had better things to do, thank you. Ed’s rage tasted coppery-hot on his tongue. He tried to recall how Oswald looked when he cried, mascara streaks down his cheeks, but with that placid blue gaze on him, it was impossible to believe Oswald had ever been vulnerable. 

“No,” he spat, lying through his clenched teeth. He needed this. It was pathology. 

Despite everything, Oswald was the only one he could trust with his particular problem. He never doubted that Oswald would hold this secret safe, because Ed knew he ached for it, too. Still, he had yet to glimpse any of that hope, that easy tenderness that Oswald used to share with him so freely. He’d squandered so much of that weakness. 

“Good. Because I’m certainly not convinced you deserve it.” Oswald’s lips twitched. Between the angle of the chair and the cut of Oswald’s suit, Ed couldn’t even tell if he got off on this. If he did, he always waited until Ed was long gone before acting on it. The idea of either made his throat work in a thick swallow.

He could see Oswald sinking down into this princely chair, the air still heavy with the scent of Ed’s shame, and bringing himself off. Maybe he’d be loud, gloves still slick with Ed’s release, shameless in a way Ed could never be.

Something smacked gently against his cheek, yanking him from his unspooling fantasy. He stared down the avian head of Oswald’s cane. He hadn’t even realized his eyes were closed. 

“Don’t wander off, Edward. I’ll have you right here with me or not at all.” His hand was working faster now, and Ed, cheeks aflame with exertion and humiliation, trained his eyes on Oswald’s face obediently. He could end it with a word (they’d agreed on 'Bullock' being suitably mood-killing and unambiguous). He could leave the Lounge hard and unsatisfied. It would be painful, the stretched silence as Oswald untied him, redressing with shaky hands, but maybe it would be better than this. He could feel every heartbeat throbbing in his fingers and toes and dick, hear himself making hitching, pathetic noises at each merciful wet drag of soft leather, driving him closer and closer, his lips parting to gasp, maybe moan–

“Close!” He yelped. He bit the inside of his cheek sharply when Oswald’s touch vanished again. He made a broken sound, more animal than mastermind. 

Oswald tutted indulgently, leaning back. He squeezed more lube onto his fingers. “My, you are a glutton for punishment. You’re lucky I’m a patient man. I admit that seeing this side of you has… altered my perspective.”

How could Oswald ever fear The Riddler when he’d seen him this low? Brought him there again and again with a touch? The thought nearly brought Ed back to the edge. 

He felt obscene, lanky limbs stretched and straining. He had to blink sweat out of his eyes, felt it rolling along the small of his back and ruining Oswald’s upholstery. 

Oswald touched him again, slow and teasing. It still made Ed twist and buck, mouth hanging open on a vocalized breath. He was leaking all over. He wondered how much Oswald’s gloves cost, and if he had to buy new ones every time they did this, and if he thought of Ed when he pulled them on in the mornings. 

He choked out another warning, driving crest of pleasure seriously threatening to take him with it. Oswald, to his credit, didn’t hesitate to pull away. Ed’s eyes were glazed, nearly drained of defiance. He thought Oswald wouldn’t even have to touch him now, could probably just talk him over the edge.

As if reading his mind, Oswald pressed closer, closer than he ever dared when they did this. Ed felt lips brush the shell of his ear, and he swallowed a whimper. A single fingertip trailed down the line of Ed’s chest, edge of a nail making him arch his back, and he felt the pressed fabric of Oswald’s waistcoat and the heat beneath, just briefly. It was, absurdly, more contact than he could remember since they agreed on these meetings, and it left him feeling entirely unmoored. 

He couldn’t think long enough to predict Oswald’s next move. It was overwhelming, and achingly good. Oswald stripped him down and held the raw core of him, and didn’t crush it, even after everything. Ed moaned brokenly at the touch of a tongue to his ear. It felt too intimate, too bold, too lewd, too _Oswald_. 

He couldn’t see anything but the curve of Oswald’s shoulder, tufts of raven hair. He couldn’t smell anything but his cologne, peppery firewood and rich lavender, redolent of his father’s estate. It should have been suffocating, but something of its familiarity soothed him. 

Nothing got past Oswald. He was determined to snuff out any small comfort Ed found. “If you want something, Edward, you’ll have to ask for it.” His breath was hot on Ed’s neck, and if it was a little uneven, well, it was hard to be completely impassive. 

“Touch me.” Ed grit out, voice like coals. 

“I am.” Oswald murmured, voice like cool water.

Ed snapped. “You know what I mean! Just fucking touch me! Do you want me to beg? Really? Is that what gets you off?” His voice turned breathy and mocking. “Oh, please, Mr. Penguin, I need it. I need it so bad it hurts. Make me come, please, I’ve been so g–uh, fuck, Oswald!”

He wasn’t expecting that to work. Oswald was usually quick to punish and correct Ed for disrespect, but this time he just nipped Ed’s abused ear and wrapped a fist around his cock again, pumping smooth and fast, the way he did when he wanted Ed to lose it. It wouldn’t take much. They were too close. Ed could barely breathe. There had always been a clinical distance between them, the affair nearly transactional. This was not clinical. This was quiet chaos. He knew Oswald felt it. 

Ed hadn’t even realized he was speaking, a steady stream of _yes, yes, yes, oh, yes, fuck, fuck, close, close_ until Oswald hissed _yes_ back. It set Ed’s nerves on fire. He fucked into Oswald’s fist, out of his mind with it. Oswald made the smallest noise, barely a hiccup of desire huffed against Ed’s temple, so soft he could’ve imagined it, but it didn’t matter. It was enough.

His toes curled. He came over Oswald’s hand and onto his own stomach, chest, fuck, a little on his neck; it didn’t feel like it was going to end, and when it finally started to slow down, the sheer relief was enough to make him shudder, eyes watering. His blood was rushing too furiously in his ears for him to hear himself, which was a small miracle. He might have whined. He might have mumbled, eyelids fluttering, _thankyouthankyouthankyou_ , because in that moment he had never needed anything more. He was not silent even as it wound down, moans that betrayed equal parts satisfaction and exhaustion.

They breathed. Ed started to come down from the high. Sweat began to cool. Oswald had pulled away by the time Ed regained basic motor skills, and was already working on loosening the knots binding his wrists. Not a hair out of place, hardly a flush on his cheeks, and it could be explained away by Ed’s effusive heat. Ed was glad. He didn’t know what he’d do if… well, it didn’t matter. 

Oswald didn’t touch Ed’s wrists, though they looked raw. Ed couldn’t stop himself from imagining it. He never could. Oswald did stand, bad leg stiff, and pour him a glass of water from the pitcher by his desk. Three small ice cubes floated on the surface. 

Ed didn’t know how thirsty he was until the glass was empty and the ice cubes crushed between his molars. Oswald refilled it without prompting. He provided Ed a damp washcloth. Ed thought about that, too. How it would feel better if he wasn’t cleaning himself. But they both had boundaries. Oswald’s line stopped short of tenderness. His clothes were folded neatly on one of the two chairs facing the opposite side of the desk, and Oswald excused himself briefly while Ed redressed. When he returned, he had on a clean pair of gloves. So much for that after show fantasy. 

Ed adjusted his own tie, knowing he still looked like a wreck. “Oswald.” He had to clear his throat twice to make it sound like it wasn’t a come-on. 

Oswald quirked a smile, landing somewhere between fond and smug. “Edward. Next week?”

“Yes, I–yes.” He ducked his head, pushing damp hair away from his face. “Next week.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

“That’s hardly necessary.”

“Fine.” The deadbolt dropped open with a snick. Ed swallowed. He’d thought Oswald would insist. 

Oswald didn’t press it, but he did stop to fix Ed’s collar with a peculiar fussy focus. It reminded him of tall mirrors and shared breakfast. He twisted the doorknob. “Next week, Oswald.” It was a warning as much as an affirmation.

They never lingered on goodbyes. Edward pushed through the throngs of people, just another shape in a crowd, hat tucked under his arm. He felt new, put back together and shined to a cutting polish. Oswald was just tired. He poured himself two fingers of strong amber, muscles twinging like he’d been the one bound to a chair. 

It wouldn’t last forever, but for now, it would do. It filled the gaps in failing memories and kept them from drowning in whatever tide that pulled them together and away. It was almost good, and really, that was all they could ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> the only way to get better is to practice so if anyone would read a sequel or companion piece to this let me know what you'd like to see?!
> 
> title from 'what happened to you?' by deftones.
> 
> coronergrey.tumblr.com for gifsets and emotions


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